Forgiveness
by MadScientistGirl
Summary: Wilson quits his job, and only sometime later does Wilson realize that maybe he is the one that should ask for forgiveness.
1. Chapter 1: House

Summary: Wilson quits his job, and only sometime later does Wilson realize that maybe he is the one that should ask for forgiveness.

Spoilers: Well, this story may be spoilerish for Season 5, but I haven't actually seen the trailers (way too many hours of watching the Olympics), so I don't really know.

Author's note: This story was inspired by the first chapter of Juliabohemian's Walking Away. These two stories have gone in completely different directions, but go read her story, because it's awesome.

Many thanks to Juliabohemian for being the beta for this story! Any errors or medical inaccuracies are entirely my own.

Forgiveness

Wilson is gone. For a week, House actually expected Wilson to change his mind, that the boxes that lined his office would magically be unpacked and things would go back to normal. During that time, Wilson was busily making sure his patients were assigned to other doctors and finishing up any last minute paperwork. Or at least those were the excuses that he gave himself to avoid talking to House.

An hour before the going away party, House finally cornered Wilson in his office. All of the boxes were sealed with clear packing tape, and the desk completely bare. So there were no more excuses. It's funny how later, House only manages to remember the last part of the conversation, and how the rest somehow becomes lost to him.

"Please stay." Even now, he cringes at how pathetic he sounded.

Wilson's answer had been unusually harsh. "Why? So I can prescribe drugs for you...Loan you money? _Lie_ for you?"

In Wilson's eyes, House had seen the deeper truth, that those things were all that Wilson saw of their friendship, that House had no worth, no value. Somewhere along the way, Wilson had become just like everyone else, who saw House as a self absorbed drug addict, a miserable bastard that had nothing else to offer but his brilliant medical skills. He was someone to be despised, or at best tolerated. And Wilson had reached his limit of tolerance.

Whatever words he had planned to say died before crossing his lips. He gripped the cane a little harder, and willed the muscles of his face to show no expression as he exited the room, and then a few minutes later, the hospital itself.

He was tempted to go someplace to drink himself to death, but some part of him refused to prove Wilson's lowest expectations correct. He found himself at a movie theater, and he bought a ticket for the next movie about to start. It was 1 PM on a weekday, and the theater was practically empty. He forced himself to stare at the screen for the entire movie, even though to this day, he could not have told anyone what the movie was about, or even what actors were in it. It was still better than being at Wilson's going away party, listening to Wilson talk about the wonderful opportunity it was, how he'd be able to help so many people, how sad he was to leave, blah, blah, blah. It was bad enough knowing that Wilson wouldn't have wanted him at the party.

The finally irony wasn't apparent until a few days later. In that time, no less than six people had yelled at him for his selfishness and failure to attend. He became adept at tuning them out. For weeks, he had seen the speculation in people's eyes: was he responsible for Amber's death? But now he had officially become a pariah. The only reason people attempted to talk to him was for something work related.

In a strange twist of fate, House didn't even know where James Wilson had ended up working after leaving Princeton. Wilson had barely said two words to him in the week leading up to his departure, and everyone assumed that House already knew. He was tempted to look him up on the internet, but rejected the idea as pathetic in the extreme

As the days wore on, it became harder to keep up the routine of his life. Mentally, he began to make lists of the bare essentials for existing: Get up, shower, drive to work, office/clinic/diagnosis, lunch, more work, drive home, sleep. Somehow, if he could break things down into small enough tasks, he could get through the day.

Lunchtime was the worst. Option one was the cafeteria, where he would inevitably be the only one eating alone. He could practically feel the weight of the stares of the other diners. Eating at his desk in his office was also not a good idea, as he was typically eating only a fraction of his lunch before his appetite fled again, and having the remains sitting in his trashcan only made him feel even more nauseous. So he usually found himself hiding at lunchtime, which not only meant that he was alone, but had the added bonus of no one being able to find him.

With the help of bourbon, he was sleeping ten hours a night, and was still tired when he woke up in the morning. He slept at his desk when he could get away with it, and endured Cuddy's lecturing whenever she caught him. At least her yelling at him was a change in the monotonous routine of his life.

Every day was just a minor variation on the day before it, and House was surprised when he looked at a calendar and realized that two months had passed since Wilson had left. He was losing weight, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He wondered if it would ever get any easier, or if he was doomed to maintain this never-ending pattern until one day he just dropped dead. He tried to make an effort to eat more, forcing himself to take a few extra bites. But the weight loss persisted.

A week later, he was standing in his bathroom, trying to summon the energy to brush his teeth when something caught his eye. He peered at his reflection; was there a slight yellowing of the whites of his eyes? It was something that would probably be undetectable to anyone not trained to look for symptoms.

Part of him wanted to rejoice. This was it; he'd fucked up his liver, and now it was time for everyone to say _I told you that you shouldn't take so much Vicodin_, conveniently forgetting that it was a necessary evil to keep his pain away long enough to allow him to save their precious patients. It would be so easy to sit back and wait for the end, but he'd never been one to take the easy road. Some stubborn part of him wanted to continue the fight, the same part that hadn't given in to his father's abuse, or to the pain after the infarction, or when most people would have said that he didn't really have anything left to live for anyway.

That morning, he surprised the nurses by showing up to work in the clinic a few minutes early. All day long he treated a record number of patients, and just before lunch, he was able to find a minute alone in an exam room. With the ease of much practice, he tied the tourniquet around his left arm, and on the second try he located a vein. He drew enough vials to run a complete liver panel, plus a few other tests. He tried to think up a name for the fake patient to assign the vials to. He considered all of the silly names he and Wilson had come up over the years for running anonymous blood tests, like the time that Wilson had become convinced that he'd acquired an STD and wouldn't stop freaking out until the tests came back negative. He quashed the memory and proceeded to fill out the paperwork. The nurse didn't even look up when the vials for a John H. Smith were added to the basked to be sent down to the lab.

When the results arrived a few hours later, he knew he needed to do an ultrasound ASAP. The easiest place to get a hold of one was probably down in the clinic, so he headed down for another few hours of purgatory. When he had a sufficiently large pile of charts, he told the nurse that he was going to finish up his charting in Exam Room 3. She nodded distractedly, only grateful that for once, Dr. House was pulling his weight in the clinic. The charting was mostly finished, so he piled the charts on the stool and turned on the ultrasound machine. As he moved the wand across his abdomen, he could immediately see that his initial diagnosis of cirrhosis of the liver was incorrect. He laughed at the bitter irony of it; pancreatic cancer. Too bad he didn't know an oncologist.

In a daze, he shut down the machine and wiped the gel off his abdomen. He handed over the updated charts, and made his way up to his office. He sat at his desk, plotting his next move with a sense of concentration that hadn't been present in weeks. As he waited for his fellows to leave when the day was done, a quick internet search yielded the phone number of a doctor that House remembered speaking to at a conference a few years ago. One phone call, and he had an appointment two days later. With even greater ease, he was able to book a hotel room in New York City, only a few blocks away from the hospital. One more phone call to the janitorial services, and he had set in motion the next part of his plan.

He watched as his fellows gathered up their stuff, silently bidding them farewell. He got up to pull the blinds closed, and a few minutes later George was tapping on the glass door. House opened the door, and George pushed in a cart loaded with cardboard boxes. They both worked at packing away House's trinkets and knickknacks. As George loaded the now full boxes onto the cart, House printed his letter of resignation. He folded it carefully, putting it into an envelope with Cuddy's name on it. He laid it in the center of the now empty desk. He placed his pager and cell phone next to it. He looked around the barren office. Already it seemed alien to him, as if someone else had worked here all these years. He opened up the blinds and turned off the lights. It was time to leave.

House made his way out to his car, George following behind him with the cart. They loaded them into the trunk and the backseat, rearranging everything until it all fit. House handed over the five hundred dollars he had promised George in exchange for the man helping him pack, rather than whatever menial task he was supposed to be performing.

"Thanks, doc." George seemed to take a good look at the other man for the first time. "Everything okay?"

House wasn't sure if the concern was genuine, or the result of the cash he had just handed over, but he smiled anyway. "Yeah. Gotta know when it's time to leave the party."

George had no idea what House meant, so he nodded and tried to look smart. "Whatever ya say, doc." He watched as House slid into the driver's seat and drove away. Oh well, it was time to get back to changing lightbulbs.

That night, as House surveyed the boxes that had invaded his living room, he knew he had made the right decision. He knew the odds of beating pancreatic cancer were abysmally low, and there was no way he was going to have his illness play out in front of the entire hospital. He'd had enough false sympathy and concern a year ago when everyone had suspected he had brain cancer. At least by quitting, he'd saved Cuddy the trouble of organizing a going away party that no one would want to attend.

He didn't see her for another month. In that time, he'd had surgery to resect the tumor, and then had been put on chemotherapy to kill any remaining cancer cells in his body. He'd finally given in to having a home nurse stop by once a day. The woman didn't even try and pretend to like him, but it was still better than the rather cheerless rehab center. At least when he was at home, he was surrounded by his own things. He'd just gotten back the day before from his first chemo session. After much wrangling, the doctor had agreed that House could go home when he was well enough to move, but that for his treatment he would be hospitalized for four days. His hair had yet to fall out, so when he saw who his visitor was, he decided to open the door.

"Hey, House. I wanted to see how you were doing."

She stood there, looking as beautiful as ever, and he suddenly longed for her company, for some human contact that wasn't medical in nature. He was about to invite her in when he noticed a file folder in her had.

"What's that?" he asked, gesturing to it.

"Patient. Forty-three year old male..."

He cut her off. "Get out."

She looked at him in confusion. "What?"

"You heard me. Get out of my house."

"But he's..."

"Dying, I assume," he interrupted. "They always are. Didn't you get the memo? I quit. I don't care about your patient. It's not my problem anymore."

She looked confused, unable to understand why he wouldn't help her. He grabbed the file out her unresisting hand, and threw it into the hall. He watched in satisfaction as the papers scattered in the entryway.

"And here I thought you actually gave a shit about me."

He grabbed her arm and propelled her out the door. "Don't come back."

He slammed the door behind her. Suddenly he felt extremely tired. Any energy boost from the anger had disappeared like the wind. He limped into the bedroom and crawled into bed. For a long time he lay shivering, unable to get warm despite the pile of covers.


	2. Chapter 2: Wilson

Summary: Wilson quits his job, and only sometime later does Wilson realize that maybe he is the one that should ask for forgiveness

Author's note: Thank you so much to everyone that reviewed my story or added it to your favorite stories list. I am so glad that you are enjoying it. I hope to have the last chapter posted sometime later this week, but I live in southeastern Florida and if Hurricane Hanna's track swings just a little bit more to the west, I could be a bit busy.

Many thanks again to Juliabohemian for being the beta for this story! Any errors or medical inaccuracies are entirely my own.

Forgiveness, Chapter 2

Wilson

Wilson stood on the rooftop, watching the sun set over the pacific. It was strange to be out on the roof of the building in November with only a thin jacket over his suit. It was one of the reasons he had decided to take the job in San Diego, to find a complete change of scenery from the ice and snow of a New Jersey winter.

He sighed. Five months into the new job, and he'd hoped that things would be different. Somehow, he'd thought the job would be more fulfilling. It was obviously a step up from his previous one. He'd gone from being a big fish in a little pond, to a big fish in one of the biggest ponds out there. Only a couple of other places in the country could compare. Any journal article with the byline of the San Diego Cancer Institute automatically merited a closer look. Only the best and brightest were invited to play at this level, and he was head of the oncology department.

His new, exalted position came with an office that was at least twice the size of his old one. It also came equipped with a dragon of a secretary that was stationed outside his door. All of his business calls were routed through her, which was the first step in ostracizing him from his new colleagues.

He sighed. It wasn't just the office that was the problem. Most of his colleagues were married and had children. There were a few younger doctors who were unmarried, but Wilson felt way too old and jaded to be a part of their number. Their main social activity seemed to be bar hopping on Friday nights and picking up girls. So socially, he was the odd man out. It didn't help that many of the doctors resented the fact that the board of directors had decided to not promote from within the department when the previous head of oncology had retired.

It wasn't as if his social calendar was completely blank. At least once a month there seemed to be some department event that they all attended. Unfortunately, Wilson came away from these events not really feeling that he knew any of his colleagues any better than before. Mainly they made small talk, nothing too deep or interesting. Sometimes the interdepartmental politics make his head hurt.

A few nurses had flirted with him, but he politely let them know he wasn't interested. It was too soon, and even the thought of dating someone felt like a betrayal of Amber.

The main thing he missed was seeing patients every day. If he was lucky, once a week he actually got to be a doctor. The rest of the time was spent in an endless round of meetings, business trips, and hours at his desk reviewing grant proposals or the data from the multi-center studies they were heading. Just last week he had picked up a pair of reading glasses from his optometrist. They only partially alleviated the headaches that seemed to accompany this job.

He watched as the final colors of light faded from the sky. Unfortunately, there was still a pile of paperwork on his desk that needed to be dealt with. And then another pile for the briefcase to be read on the cross-country flight.

The next day, he even managed to find time to take a nap on the plane. He was feeling refreshed when he was ushered into Dan Zabriski's office. To his surprise, the office was small and cramped, and had a window that overlooked the parking lot. That was odd for someone who was clearly a rising star in his field. Wilson had to remind himself that Dan was the type of doctor who spent his time on the floor with his patients, and probably avoided his office as much as possible. In fact, the man wasn't even his office when his assistant opened the door.

"Dr. Zabrsiki should be here in a minute. Please feel free to make yourself at home."

Wilson settled into one of the chairs pulled up in front of the desk. If he was to be truly _at home_, then he should be on the other side of the desk. He looked around at the stuff on the desk. Dan clearly didn't believe in having keepsakes or knickknacks on his disk. Other than a single framed picture, the only other thing on the desk were several stacks of patient folders. Wilson leaned over so he could see the front of the picture. It showed a woman in camouflage gear, which was splattered with a rainbow of colored paintball pellets. He smiled, curious about the identity of the woman.

He moved back to the chair, and as sat down, he absently looked at the largest pile of folders on the desk, and the name on top seemed to leap out at him: _Gregory House_. A name that he had almost consciously purged from his thoughts for the past few months. He paused to take a second glance, sure that somehow it was some trick his mind was playing on him. No, the letters hadn't rearranged themselves; it really was Gregory House. Of course, there was no way that House was here in a hospital in New York; the man would never move away from Princeton.

He was saved from further speculation when Dan walked in the door. After a few pleasantries, they got down to business, working out the details of the drug study that would be carried out at four institutions across the country, including New York and San Diego.

When they were through with the business they needed to discuss, Dan invited Wilson to join him for dinner, but Wilson demurred, stating that he was meeting an old friend for dinner.

As he sat alone in the restaurant, he tried to think of some way to verify that the folder in Dan's office really wasn't the Gregory House he knew. Finally he picked up his cell phone and dialed House's office number. The man was probably gone for the day, and even if he answered, he never bothered with caller ID so Wilson could just hang up. For a long time, the phone rang, until a woman answered.

"Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. How may I help you?"

Wilson swallowed. "I'm trying to reach Dr. House."

Almost immediately, the woman replied, "I'm sorry, but Dr. House no longer works here."

Wilson hung up, staring at the phone in shock. Quickly he dialed a second number, and this time, he recognized the voice of the woman that answered.

"Hey Lisa, I was trying to reach House."

His apprehension grew when she didn't answer right away. "About a month ago, he quit," she finally offered.

"Why? What happened? Did he go somewhere else?"

"I don't know. As far as I know, he isn't working anymore. One day I came in, and his office was cleaned out and there was a letter of resignation on his desk. He didn't give a reason."

"Have you seen him since?"

"Only once." There was something in her voice that he couldn't identify. "I thought maybe he'd change his mind. I went to his place, and I brought over a case to get a consult. He threw me out." She sighed. "I haven't gone back."

He thanked her for the information, and then hung up. He still had no more information than when he'd started. Finally he went back to the hospital and marched up to the information desk.

"I'm here to see Gregory House." He knew he'd look extremely foolish if there were no patient with that name. The woman typed the name into her computer, and then gave him a room number. In a daze, he tried to pay attention to her directions.


	3. Chapter 3: Friends?

Summary: Wilson quits his job, and only sometime later does Wilson realize that maybe he is the one that should ask for forgiveness.

Again, many thanks to Juliabohemian for being the beta for this story! Any errors or medical inaccuracies are entirely my own.

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed my story. I hope you enjoyed it.

Forgiveness

When Wilson walked into the hospital room, he immediately recognized House, despite the fact that the man had no hair, he had clearly lost weight, and his skin was already sporting discolored patches from the chemo.

"House." Wilson couldn't think of anything to say. He finally settled for, "how are you?"

"I have pancreatic cancer. I've had two months of chemo. How the hell do you think I feel?" House's voice dripped with sarcasm. He looked over at the younger man with undisguised scorn. "Why are you here?"

"It was by accident that I saw your file. I wasn't even sure it was you. I just..."

House interrupted him. "I don't care how you found out. I want to know why you are here, standing in my hospital room."

Wilson was confused. "Why wouldn't I? You're my friend."

House snorted. "News to me. I guess the post office lost the change of address card you sent. The answering machine must have deleted your messages."

"I'm sorry I haven't called," Wilson apologized. House didn't even bother to listen, as it was a perfunctory apology at best. Wilson continued, "I could stay and make sure you got the best care."

"Why would you want to? I'm just the guy that steals your food and borrows money from you."

Wilson was trying to come up with a reply when House continued. "And why would I want you to oversee my care? It's really served me so well in the past. I can see it now. 'Your veins really aren't on fire from the chemo. It's all just in your head.' And then if we had a disagreement, well we all know that anti-emetics are a good bargaining chip. Or why not detox during chemo? Might as well, given that I'm already puking." He looked intently at Wilson.

"With friends like you, who needs enemies? You should go back to wherever it is you live now."

"I can't just leave!"

"Why not? You've had plenty of practice." House was merciless, for once not holding anything back.

Finally Wilson was prepared to defend himself.

"I had to leave. I couldn't stay in Princeton where everything reminded me of Amber. It was too painful."

House sneered, "you know, most people would buy that story, but this is me you're talking to. It's complete bullshit. The sympathy and the sadness, you wallow in it like a pig in shit. Poor Wilson, so dedicated to his dying patients. Poor Wilson, his wife left him. Poor Wilson, look at who he's friends with. Be honest with yourself for once! The reason you couldn't stay in Princeton was that every time you laid eyes on me, you wished that I were the one that had died in the bus crash. You can't handle that, because it is completely at odds with your own view of yourself, because _Mr. Niceguy _couldn't have such a mean, nasty thought."

Now Wilson was mad. "It's your fault that she died!"

"Now that's honest," House snapped back, almost proud that he got Wilson to admit it.

"Was what I did really so bad? I didn't get drunk and drive a car. I didn't practice medicine while drunk. I didn't force her to take the pills...or to get on the bus. She chose to do those things."

"You were the reason she was there in the first place."

"Yeah. But she could have been there for any reason. Sometimes people just die. Life's messy, and things don't have a reason. They just happen. Do you think I wanted her to die? I risked my life to try and save her. But I guess that doesn't count because it turns out there was nothing anyone could have done. At least you got to say goodbye, which is more than most people get. Of course, the final _goodbye_ just proved to be the perfect ending to the _Wilson-Amber tragedy_."

For a moment, both men glared at each other. Then Wilson looked at his watch. "I have a plane to catch."

When Wilson failed to say anything else, House deliberately turned over. With House's back was now facing him, Wilson had no choice but to turn and leave.

For the first time in a long time, Wilson didn't look at the paperwork on his flight home. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the leather seat. He put on his headphones to listen to some music, but it wasn't loud enough to drown out the voices in his head. Portions of the conversation with House kept repeating themselves, reminding him of other conversations from over the years. For so long he had justified so many of his actions, saying that he really was doing things for House's benefit. But for the first time, his brain forced him to look at them as House would. Conversations he had thought were lost to the fog of memory were replaying themselves in his mind.

His thoughts were interrupted when a hand touched his shoulder. "Sir, are you alright?"

It was only when he opened his eyes did he realize that his cheeks were wet with tears. The hand on his shoulder belonged to the stewardess. He managed a weak smile.

"Fine, thank you."

He turned to stare out into the darkness, unable to stop the flow of memories now that they had finally begun.

When the plane finally landed, he collected his car and drove home. Somehow he made it through the rest of the week at work. At random times he would find his mind drifting, making it impossible to concentrate on the papers in front of him. It seemed that after months of numbness, he had finally developed a conscience, and it spoke with House's voice, pointing out every weakness, every flaw.

Friday evening found him fumbling his way through his front door, juggling his briefcase, the pile of mail from the mailbox, and a box of Chinese takeout. The briefcase ended up in the corner, and the mail and the food on the table. He grabbed a plate and sat down to read his mail while he ate. The first few envelopes were bills, which he opened and then set aside to pay later. The last was a padded envelope, and he squinted at the return address. It appeared to be from a real estate agent in Princeton, New Jersey. With a feeling of dread, he ripped open the envelope. As he pulled out the sheet of notepaper that it contained, a key fell out. Intrigued, he opened the note. "Dear Dr. Wilson. This key was on the ring of keys you handed over at closing. For months, we've tried to figure out what lock it fit. We are returning it to you in case it was given to us in error. Bob and Nancy Morales."

He held the key in the palm of his hand. It was more than a silver key; to Wilson, it was a sign from a benevolent god. Maybe there was some small hope for redemption.

Twenty-four hours later, he was standing in front a familiar wooden door in Princeton, feeling extremely foolish. What were the changes that House even still lived here? What if he knocked and someone else answered? He pulled the key from his pocket, and slipped it into the lock. To his immense relief, it turned easily, revealing House's apartment, looking like nothing had changed since the last time he'd been here. Before he could figure out what he was going to say, House was coming out of the kitchen, a glass of something in his hand. When he saw Wilson, he merely raised his eyebrows and waited for Wilson's explanation of why he had suddenly appeared in his apartment.

"I'm sorry." Wilson spoke fast, knowing he didn't have much time before he was kicked out of here on his ass. "I had no right to blame you for Amber's death. I had no right to ask you to do the deep brain stimulation, knowing the risks, and I should have been grateful for the fact that you risked your life to save her. You were right. Every time I looked at you, I was angry. But it wasn't just that; I also saw my own guilt, for what I had done to you. I've been a crappy friend, and even more than that, I've been a crappy doctor. You didn't deserve it, any of it. I don't expect your forgiveness, but you deserve my apology."

For a long time the two men looked at each other, not speaking. Finally House looked away. "You want something to drink?"

Wilson sagged with relief. House would never say the words, but by letting Wilson back in, he knew he'd been forgiven. "Whatever you're drinking is fine."

House looked down at the glass in his hand. "Ginger ale?" He shrugged and handed over the glass. He limped off to the kitchen to pour another glass. When he returned, Wilson was already seated in his customary spot. They watched movies for the rest of the night. At midnight, House pushed himself off the couch. "You want to sleep on the couch?"

Wilson smiled. "Thanks. I didn't make a hotel reservation, because I didn't think you'd let me stay."

House glanced over his shoulder. "Blankets are in the usual spot."

The next morning, Wilson investigated the contents of the cupboards, and then made a quick trip to the grocery store. House woke up to the smell of coffee and pancakes. He passed on the coffee, but began to eat the pancakes. For the first time in a long time, he felt like eating. He looked over at Wilson, who was looking morose. "What's with you?"

"I need to take off soon and catch a flight back to San Diego." He sighed. "I hate my job. I hate my house; it doesn't feel like a home. I even hate San Diego."

"All that sunshine? Are you nuts?"

"There are no seasons. And what is the point of sunshine if you work eighty hours a week? I hardly ever get to see patients anymore. I thought I didn't mind paperwork, but these days, that's all I do."

House thought for a moment. "Maybe Cuddy would give you back your job."

Wilson smiled happily at the thought. "What about you?"

"Well, my final chemo treatment didn't kill me, so I guess the only thing on my calendar is sleeping a lot for the next few weeks. Maybe by then I'll won't feel like I'd been run over by a truck."

Wilson suddenly looked concerned. "How are you, really?"

House shrugged, and looked away. "It was caught fairly early, but I don't need to tell you how nasty adenocarcinoma is. Bill Schweitzer resected the tumor, and it's been responding well to chemo. So for now, no more chemo, but that could change with the next blood test."

"So what do you plan to do? Sit here and stare at the walls? Maybe you'll be back in treatment in a month, but maybe you won't."

House shrugged. "I quit my job, so what else is there?"

Wilson pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number from memory. "Hey Lisa, I was wondering if you had any openings for two former department heads."

House smiled, and didn't even bother listening to the conversation. Things were so many things that were far from certain. At almost any time, the cancer could be back ravaging his body, and there were still a lot of fences to mend with Wilson. There was no guarantee that Cuddy would choose to rehire them, or if he'd even feel well enough to work. But either way, things were finally starting to feel right again.

THE END

Thank you all for reading!


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